Contented Wi' Little.

Tune - "Lumps o' Pudding."


I.

    Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
    Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow end care,
    I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang,
    Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang.

II.

    I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
    But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:
    My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
    And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

III.

    A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
    A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a':
    When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
    Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?

IV.

    Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way;
    Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae:
    Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain;
    My warst word is - "Welcome, and welcome again!"

Robert Burns

Robert Burns, also known as Rabbie Burns, the Bard of Ayrshire, and various other names and epithets, was a Scottish poet and lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. Born on January 25, 1759, in Alloway, he is best known for works such as 'Auld Lang Syne,' 'Scots Wha Hae,' and 'A Red, Red Rose.' He passed away on July 21, 1796, in Dumfries.

Robert Burns

The Braes O' Ballochmyle.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Battle Of Sheriff-Muir.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Written At Inverary.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Monody, On A Lady Famed For Her Caprice.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Epistle To Major Logan.

    Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
    Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
    To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
        We never heed,
    But tak' it like the unback'd filly,
        Proud o' her speed.

    When idly goavan whyles we saunter
    Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
    Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
        Some black bog-hole,
    Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter
        We're forced to thole.

    Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
    Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
    To cheer you through the weary widdle
        O' this wild warl',
    Until you on a crummock driddle
        A gray-hair'd carl.

    Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
    Heaven send your hear...

Robert Burns

Country Lassie.

Tune - "The Country Lass."


I.

    In simmer, when the hay was mawn,
        And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
    While claver blooms white o'er the lea,
        And roses blaw in ilka bield;
    Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel,
        Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will;
    Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild
        O' guid advisement comes nae ill.

II.

    It's ye hae wooers mony ane,
        And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken;
    Then wait a wee, and cannie wale,
        A routhie butt, a routhie ben:
    There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,
        Fu' is his burn, fu' is his byre;
    Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen,
        It's plenty beets the luver's fire.

III.

    For Johnie ...

Robert Burns

To Mrs. Scott, Of Wauchope.

    I mind it weel in early date,
    When I was beardless, young and blate,
        An' first could thresh the barn;
    Or hand a yokin at the pleugh;
    An' tho' forfoughten sair enough,
        Yet unco proud to learn:
    When first amang the yellow corn
        A man I reckon'd was,
    An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
        Could rank my rig and lass,
            Still shearing, and clearing,
                The tither stooked raw,
            Wi' claivers, an' haivers,
                Wearing the day awa.

    E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r,
    A wish that to my latest hour
        Shall strongly heave my breast,
    That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
    Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
        Or sing a sang at least...

Robert Burns

O Poortith Cauld.

Tune - "I had a horse."



I.

    O poortith cauld, and restless love,
        Ye wreck my peace between ye;
    Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
            An' twere na' for my Jeanie.
                O why should fate sic pleasure have,
                    Life's dearest bands untwining?
                Or why sae sweet a flower as love
                    Depend on fortune's shining?

II.

    This warld's wealth when I think on,
        It's pride, and a' the lave o't
    Fie, fie on silly coward man,
        That he should be the slave o't!

III.

    Her een sae bonnie blue betray
        How she repays my passion;
    But prudence is her o'erword ay,
        She talks of rank and fashion.

Robert Burns

The Inventory; - In Answer To A Mandate By The Surveyor Of The Taxes.

    Sir, as your mandate did request,
    I send you here a faithfu' list,
    O' gudes, an' gear, an' a' my graith,
    To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith.

        Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
    I have four brutes o' gallant mettle,
    As ever drew afore a pettle.
    My lan' afore's^[1] a gude auld has been,
    An' wight, an' wilfu' a' his days been.
    My lan ahin's^[2] a weel gaun fillie,
    That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,^[3]
    An' your auld burro' mony a time,
    In days when riding was nae crime,
    But ance, whan in my wooing pride,
    I like a blockhead boost to ride,
    The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,
    (L--d pardon a' my sins an' that too!)
    I play'd my fillie sic a s...

Robert Burns

What Can A Young Lassie.

Tune - "What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man."


I.

    What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
        What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?
    Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie
        To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'!
    Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie
        To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'!

II.

    He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin',
        He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang;
    He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen,
        O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!
    He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen,
        O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!

III.

    He hums and he ha...

Robert Burns